Growing as the sun rises and the water runs in sinks,

growing as the sun sets and as the muezzin chants,

growing as pen pours onto paper,

as silence boils, as the bee enters,

as you breathe,

and then one day after the dead silence,

the thump of impatient feet on uterine walls,

and the beat of life into heart monitors,

fuels in you a galaxy of stars.

Contractions grow like wind in the leaves,

and with the glazed eyes of an asylum seeker,

a soul tears into borrowed land,

gushing with blood and pain.


He never asked for it,

the blue rich mountains or the stormy seas,

or the daily porridge that whips in him a thousand suns,

that must in the end, set,

a thousand more words like gruel on his tongue,

that must in the end, cease.


It’s not yet time for him to know of course,

that like the unsealed slice of bacon,

in his mother’s refrigerator,

he too shall rot if he fails to show this world

his Secondary School leaving certificate,

if he shows this world, that he has lived his life.


If he never wished to be born,

praise yourself the agony you spared,

forgive yourself like you would,

that old type writer in the corner.